Page 57 of Hush
God, this was really happening. This was finally, finally happening. He rocked forward, pressing against Mike.
Mike hissed. His hands clamped down on Tom’s hips. Yes, yes. Tom surged against him, rocking his body against Mike’s, cupping his hands around Mike’s face.
Moaning, Mike ran his hands up Tom’s back, his shoulders, and into his hair. “Tom…”
“Yes. Yes, Mike. Yes. Please.” Squirming, Tom pressed against Mike as he sat in his lap. He couldn’t think, couldn’t put thoughts together. He just wanted Mike’s hands on him, on his skin. Wanted Mike’s body to push him back into his mattress. Or the couch. Or the floor. He wasn’t picky, not right now.
But Mike gently pushed him back. Put inches between their bodies. Tom leaned forward, trying to keep their kiss going.
“Tom… Can we… go a little slower?”
Ice-cold water drenched him. His passion blunted. The curl of humiliation, uncomfortably familiar, rose in his belly. “Yeah.” Tom slid off Mike’s lap, standing unsteadily. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
Mike stood, grabbing his hands. He kissed his knuckles, pressed his cheek to the back of his fingers. “Nothing to apologize for. I want to treat you right.” Another kiss to his knuckles, and then a light touch of Mike’s lips to his. “And I said slower. Not stop.”
Damn it, his passion was flaring again. He was a sun about to go supernova.
Etta Mae padded up the deck and wagged her tail at them both. Her tongue lolled out, the heat of the summer evening sapping her energy.
“Let’s go inside.”
Etta Mae pushed her way through first. Mike chuckled, holding the door open for both Etta Mae and Tom. Jazz hit Tom, a slow saxophone and trombone duet. He needed to get away from Mike, get himself under control.
But, Mike reached for him, laced their fingers together. He spun Tom gently and brought him close, one hand landing on his waist. He started to sway, leading Tom with his hips.
And now they were dancing. They were dancing in his living room as Etta Mae slurped her water, making a racket in counterpoint to the soft music. Mike pressed his cheek against Tom’s, laid a kiss to the center of his forehead. Tom trembled, shaking in Mike’s hold.
The song bled into another, and Mike spun him, pulled him close again. Kissed his closed eyes. Hummed along with the music, nuzzling Tom’s cheek.
Eventually, Tom pulled away, shaking from his head to the tips of his toes. “I need a minute.”
Mike steered him to the couch, where Etta Mae had flopped in her spot at the end, draping herself over the throw pillows and the couch arm. Her soft snores floated through the living room. Mike sat, and pulled Tom down, cradling him like they’d sat outside. “You okay?”
“Overwhelmed.” Tom exhaled slowly. Mike threaded their fingers together again. He squeezed, and didn’t let go. “This is more than I ever imagined.”
“Should I go?”
“No. I never want you to leave.”
A kiss to his hair, and then Mike rested his cheek on top of Tom’s head.
“Tell me more about you, Mike. Talk to me.” Talking to Mike had always been easy, been fun, but it was like a spell had been cast, and their hands and lips were doing the speaking now. Their bodies were aligning, Tom’s craving Mike, his touch and everything about him. But there was something in the air, in the room with them, something unspoken and dark. Tom wanted everything, wanted to roll in Mike’s arms and start slowly stripping, but…
Mike told him story after story. Him in high school, figuring out that he was different than the other guys. He liked his fellow football players more than he liked the cheerleaders. Fooling around with one of them, his first time, a teenage fumble. Joining the Navy. He’d been in a supportive command. There were two lesbians who were very open about themselves, and no one on the ship gave them any crap. He never had to come out, because he was never in. He was just himself, and he had hookups in different ports, a few encounters out at sea with fellow sailors. He saw the world, learned the intel trade, and grew a little bit, as a man. And then, the marshals. He grew a lot more as a man, there.
“I love your life.” Tom stroked Mike’s hand, his thumb tracing the bones under Mike’s skin. “It sounds great. You’re a great man.”
“I’ve had missteps. I’ve made mistakes. I don’t think I’d pass a Senate confirmation. You’ve lived a better life.”
“I’ve lived a sterile life.”
“What would you do, if you could do anything?”
He stroked Mike’s hand again, tracing a scar that led up his arm. “Anything? I’d…” He’d find someone. He wouldn’t be alone. He’d wake up smiling every day, go to sleep smiling every night. He’d have arms around him, kisses on his lips. They’d travel, walk Etta Mae together, cook side by side. Live life. “I wouldn’t be alone.”
Mike touched his cheek, cupped his chin. Turned his face gently, until they were eye to eye, noses brushing, little Eskimo kisses. A gentle, chaste kiss of the lips, and then another. And another. And then it lingered, stretched. Tongues slid together, gentle nudges, sucks.
Time stretched again, going thin. Tom shifted in Mike’s hold, reclining half on the couch, half on Mike. One leg went over Mike’s lap, and Mike’s arms wound around him, holding him close. Tom’s hands ran through Mike’s hair, cradled his neck. Their kisses stretched on, and on, and on.
